"Madam, wake up! Please—madam! The master is calling and he—" hands shake my shoulder.
"Oh, Miriam, enough!" I bat her away, wincing.
That nightmare… vile. I take inventory—head splitting, stomach queasy. If Inar ever cheats for real, I swear I'll wring his neck. Not that he would. Not to a true mate. Not to someone he loves.
"Lady Lili, now! Lord DelVer does not tolerate delays. If you aren't in his study in five minutes, he'll punish us both."
"Lower your voice," I snap. My maid is in full hysteria. I let my staff get away with plenty, but this? Why would Inar punish me—and her?
I mean to lecture her, but pain lances my skull. The curtains are drawn, yet snowlight still pours into every corner.
When they carried me out of the forest, I chose this room—small but the warmest.
"Miriam, what is this performance?" I manage to lift, then collapse back on the pillows. "You know Inar won't be back soon. He wrote yesterday from the naga kingdom. And where's my tea?"
What is with her today? She's never this clumsy.
She yanks off my blanket and hauls me upright. I squeak, dizzy, but don't fight. Nausea, chills—the headache again. Odd—my cheek throbs. Odder—I'm still in yesterday's clothes. I slept in them.
"I'm up, I'm up! Stop it, Miriam—I'm not a doll." I shoulder past her into the washroom.
"Faster!" She wrings her hands. "The master was…not himself when I brought the link casket."
Oh. My husband is home. How did I miss that? I've been waiting—and the surprise… I whirl water on my face and call, breathless:
"Lay the table in the raspberry dining room. He's tired, he missed me. And have them warm the big bedroom. Tell him—today we celebrate. I have something to show him." I'm smiling so hard my cheeks ache.
I brush my fingertips over the marriage bracelet. Inar promised script would bloom across it once I synced to him. I'm his true mate. Soon they'll all see. My daily mantra.
"It's already warm, Lili," Miriam murmurs, eyes ducking as I step out. Strange. Later.
I float down the corridor toward his study, giddy. He's waiting. My husband is home. Halfway there I'm practically running. At the door with brown inlays, I stop, breathe.
"Hold it together, Lili. You missed his hands, his mouth—but you're not a wag-tailed pup. Want, don't show." I lift my chin, knock twice.
"Come in, Lil." Cold and even—his dragon voice. No one else gets to call me that.
My palm presses the heavy wood; it yields. I sail into the dark study, leather trousers hugging my legs, house shoes whispering on bare stone.
"Inar!" I wrap him up, drowning in his scent.
I balance on tiptoe—he's so tall my nose ends up in his shoulder. So why aren't his arms around me?
Doubt starts to nibble. Every instinct howls: wrong. The thought alone peels me back enough to see his face.
"Lil"—sometimes the nickname from him cuts—"I trust you're feeling better?" The words are courteous. The care is missing.
That pose… I know it. Feet braced wide, hands linked behind his back—message received. I narrow my eyes and nod.
I still don't see the play. Back on Earth they swore I had a journalist's instincts, a nose for the truth. But when it comes to love, I'm blind as a mole.
I edge sideways, and there she is behind him on the couch—the pink lady, perfectly at home. One leg draped over the other, a flash of pale skin under frothy skirts. She's dressed Naga-style: silk, straps, all summer and softness. Makes sense for a land of eternal heat—not our endless winters.
"Um… Inar? We have a guest?" I study her, clocking detail after detail that doesn't read human.
That rotten worm of doubt won't stop wriggling. Why does this feel familiar—she included? The marshmallow madam actually looks surprised I asked.
"Lili, drop the act. Your behavior last night was beneath you. Don't repeat it," Inar says, commander-cold, pinning me in place.
"What? What are you—" Pain explodes—another slap.
"Does that jog your memory?" Inar's fingers circle my throat, gentle as he sweeps a curl off my cheek.
He's so sure of his hold on me my hands go numb. I don't recognize this man. I don't like this man. Let the pink cloud have him. Yes, I remember now. I rock back, tear free of his touch. Oh, I remember.
"For what?" I grind out, hatred burning, palm on my hot cheek.
"Your conduct shames my wife. You will behave. I've clearly allowed you too much." Each word clicks like a lock as he sits at the dark table dominating the room.
I can't help it—I glance at the "wife." I expected fear. How could you not be afraid, watching a two-meter dragon of a man bully a woman? It isn't normal.
She's calm. Relaxed, even. Bile slicks my tongue; I swallow past the bitterness.
"My wife needs rest. Therefore—this." Inar extends a scroll toward me.
He holds my gaze—flat, unrepentant. In my head the words loop like a curse: My wife needs rest. My wife needs rest.And me—what am I, then?
I freeze. I wait for a crack, a flinch, a cruel little "just kidding." Nothing. It's real. The silence stretches until I scrape up the last of my dignity and step to the dragon's desk.
"What is it?" I tip my chin at the scroll.
My hands tremble. I refuse to let him see how it guts me.
"The deed. The carriage is ready. I told Miriam to pack your things. Go prepare." He talks like any of this makes sense. What house. Prepare for what.
"And this one?" I sweep the room—meaning this home, the one we made. I thought we made.
"Lili, get a grip." The bark drops me into line like a raw recruit.
I snap straight. Who is this man? I had a husband who loved me. Or maybe that was just my story.
Tears burn, but I keep my chin high. I will not fall apart in front of a strange woman and a stranger wearing my husband's face.
"My wife needs quiet, and this property is ideal," he continues evenly. Of course it is: edge of the forest, far from the cities; even dragons avoid these skies so as not to spook the rare creatures listed in the Book of Precious Beings. "The staff are well trained."
I realize I missed part of his hymn—to my house. I bled a year into these walls, believing I was building a nest while my husband served the Emperor. Turns out I renovated a pied-à-terre for the dragon's wife.
There used to be ruins here.
"I hired that staff. I trained them," I say—proud, and yes, accusing.
"Yes. Which is why I'm giving you an entire house, not a city flat. You understand how our arrangement proceeds from here?" His tone is nails in the coffin of us.
I nod once.
"You'll live in your new house, in a village near the capital. A maid. A monthly stipend. I'll visit when I can. I can't spare you much time now, but later…" He says it with his wife in the room.
So what does that make me? And what was the paper he shoved at me on my second day in this world?
"Are we divorcing?" I ask, trying to dig the truth out of this theater.
I take the scroll anyway. Fine. Property is leverage in a new world. Yes, it burns that the dragon paid for it—and there will be strings. There are always strings. However…
The pink cloud snorts—earning herself a silent curse from me.
"Fine! I'm quiet, I'm quiet!" She throws up her hands in surrender.
I glance at Inar—and blink. He's glaring at her. Hard.
Gods, how did I end up not the only one? What else don't I know about this mess of a life? I can feel there's more. I can't yet name it.
"Inar, please—let's speak alone," I ask, careful and low.
Maybe it's imperial business. Anyone can see she's naga nobility, and things with the nagas have been… brittle. Get him alone, get the truth.
"No, darling," the cloud cuts in, sweet as poison. "I've already accepted your presence in our family. I understand Inar's pity for a useless outworlder—but I've been waiting six months for you to accept that I am his wife."
Get used to it?Six months? If I'd known, my footprints would've been long gone.
My stomach flips. We hold, girl. Abandoned kids have survived worse. I bite my cheek and lock onto Inar. He doesn't even register me. He hates that I've learned more than he planned.
"So—six months?" I ask, flat with exhaustion.
They played me for a fool. And the staff—did they play along?
"Celia, you wanted to tour the house. The majordomo will assist."
Right on cue, the doors swing wide. Ramon enters—the majordomo who predates me by years. His white face is its usual mask. Celia actually flinches; he's all grim lines and walking-corpse calm.
Yes, sweetheart—handle him yourself, I think, mean and empty. No relief. Either way, she's here to take what's mine.
Celia glides past with a regal sniff, throws me one last superior look, and is gone. I round on my husband.
"Inar, what is this? Explain. Did someone make you bring that… disaster into our house? Is she a spy?" The theories spill out of me in a rush.
"Lili." He closes the distance, palms warm on my cheeks. "Don't disappoint me. You understand, don't you?" One hand slides through my hair, the other lifts my chin. "The mobile carriage is ready—you leave now. Don't worry; I'll be in the capital next week and I'll visit. You wanted more time together, remember? Wish granted." He smiles, strokes my curls, inhales my scent, and breathes it back across my mouth. "I missed you."
The words turn my stomach. I'm not a masochist. I won't stand for this—even if it is some elaborate, vicious joke.